


interlude of dread

by morriathan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Dimension, Alternate Reality, BAMF Harry Potter, Blood, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Calm Before The Storm, Dimension Travel, First War with Voldemort, Gen, Gryffindor Harry Potter, Inspired by Where is My Mind by Safari Riot, Light Angst, Neutral Harry, Parallel Universe, Possible torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Powerful Harry Potter, Rose Tinted Glasses are Not in Fashion, Slytherin Harry Potter, Teenage War Generals, Time Travel, Violence, War, possible gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22126597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morriathan/pseuds/morriathan
Summary: In the midst of a battle of survival and exhaustion, Harry ends up in a world that seems too good to be true. But from one looming danger into the next, Harry discovers he isn't safe in world where his parents now live. Living in an era where Voldemort's force is now only rising in a true, unstoppable fashion, Harry must prepare himself for a war where he has no friends or family to aid him on his way—in a dimension that doesn't much care that he technically hasn't been born yet. His name is Harry James Potter, and he has been prophesied as the one to end Voldemort's reign. The power he knows not was never actually the Horcrux buried in his scar. Harry wishes it was."The whispers..." a raspy, croaking voice said into the howling wind. "They call."
Comments: 5
Kudos: 74





	interlude of dread

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I hope people enjoy this fic. Kudo this work if you guys like it, and I appreciate constructive criticism as well! Leave a comment if you want to :)

The trees were all consuming with their stretching shadows and unknown plains of utter darkness. The night was frosty, air rough and sharp against the lungs, and the moon was hidden behind the cover of clouds. No moonlight shone over the tall, thick forest, full of dry, brittle trees and snarly thorns and a grimness long sunk into the ground. It was silent. The nocturnal sounds of birds and hunting predators, of insects and their cricketing sounds, frogs croaking, wolves howling, was a nonexistent cacophony. There was no life in the forest that night, with the wind rattling like bones against hollow tree trunks. The air was still, thick with tension. It was broken by the sound of thudding footsteps against crunched leaves, and the screaming, hoarse voice that yelled “ _Expulso_! _Expulso_! _Sectumsempra_! _CRUCIO_!”

Harry is running. He doesn’t know for how long, or how far, or why he is running, even with the Death Eater chasing gleefully behind him. He doesn’t know why he is running with burning calves and heavy thighs and screaming lungs. Why anything is worth the narrowness of his vision and the dizziness plaguing his body and his heart fraught against his ribs, beating seconds into his veins. But then all of a second he frantically wonders if Ron and Hermione are okay, where he left them within the wards of their camp. The only reason he’s in another of his reckless escapades is because he thoughtlessly staked himself outside the wards of their tent. But his mind had been whirling, eyes burning into unshed tears, lungs straining for a good cry, and he didn’t want to disrupt the happy glow that surrounded his two best friends, curled up on the lumpy couch and looking at each other as if they couldn’t get enough. So instead of immediately debating their next course of action with the Sword of Gryffindor, Harry went outside to heave and sob in private, shaking with relief with the return of Ron, and he was spotted instantly when the black cloaks of Death Eaters rounded the copse of trees that acted as a sentry to their wards. He didn’t hesitate, forgot to remember self-preservation, decided to ignore that he was the ultimate weapon for the war. He is a boy weaponized, worth only the end of the war, once surrounded by people who lapsed to tell him his worth in more than just power and prophecy. So he remembers with his aching body that he is running for Ron and Hermione, for the Weasleys and Neville and Luna, for the students preyed on in Hogwarts. Sirius, for revenge against Bellatrix, and maybe, for the Slytherins too constricted to make a stand against Voldemort.

Harry tears down the forest floor, vaults over gnarled roots and around thorny bushes, fails to dodge all of the mechanical, metal sharp crows conjured from Bellatrix’s “ _Oppugno_!” He yelps with pain when he manages to tear himself from the vile creatures, and he can feel the blood from gashes running down his arms and back, blood and sweat sticky on his skin. He barely avoids a screamed “ _Confringo_!” before slipping clumsily behind a large oaken tree in the aftermath of burning, spreading flames. Heart in his throat, Harry struggles to control his breathing and regain his breath. He listens with strained ears and cold sweat drips down his spine when he hears Bellatrix’s raucous steps. 

“Little bitty Potter!” Bellatrix croons and Harry shivers in fear and disgust, breath caught. “Come and play! Cousin always loved a little bit of fun”—she cautions closer to Harry’s hiding spot—”so a dirty halfblood like you must have learned some parlour tricks from my _favorite_ bloodtraiter of a cousin! Come to Aunty, ickle Harry Potter!” Harry twitches at that, rage flaring in his blood, but he dearly hopes this comes to a head soon because he can feel the adrenaline pouring out with his energy each second his sits in idle stillness. Moments pass, and time seems to sludge by in silence. He can’t hear her footsteps anymore, and Harry is suddenly sure that the barmy witch seems to have silenced herself. He struggles not to shake with terror, and takes deep, gasping breaths as quiet as he can, despairing silently when he can feel a sluggish weight pulling at his body. “Potter!” Bellatrix barks out suddenly. Harry jumps, and he tenses with the knowledge that she’s only a few feet away. She knows where he is. 

He prepares himself for the inevitable and jumps out, terror pumping his heart, wand gripped in a clammy, tensed hand, pointing at the back facing towards him. His hulking, heavy movements are wild and loud, so her crazy, mad face is boring into his when he roars out “ _Expulso_!” His aim is weak, grip sloppy from exhaustion, and magic depleted to its last dregs. His curse rakes at the flanks of the witch who staggers to the ground, earning a scream of utter rage, but it doesn’t evolve to its full potential, where it should have exploded its target. He curses, and breaks a mad dash deeper into the grim forest, heaving weak breaths from his chest. He knows he’s weakening, and that he’s probably seconds from passing out, but he can’t give up, _can’t give up can’t give up can’t give up_. It’s a mantra in his mind—

“ _Crucio_!” a high-pitched howls in revenge, and Harry’s knees are digging painfully into the ground barely a second later, kneeled over in craggly grass—screams being torn out of his throat, nerves burning in agony. His body is taut like a bow, constricted with locked muscles, though his hands shake uncontrollably the longer the seconds seemed to loom. Harry struggles to think around the haze of pain, around the rawness of his throat and the blood seeping his strength into the earth below, struggles to remember that he is more than merely pain and blood and pain.

He wants to succumb, wants to grovel into the ground and beg for reprieve, but he forces himself onto bloody forearms with a bellowing, raw scream, and barely avoids doubling over. Bellatrix is too busy being a mad bitch to notice his struggling, cackling with a crazy fervor, so he lunges over to his holly wand, blood gushing in his mouth when he harshly bites into his tongue, and snaps his wand towards his godfather’s murderer.

“ _EXPELLIARMUS_!” Harry yells, and the red jet of light slams Bellatrix into a tree with a sickening crunch, the impact of the spell completely incapacitating the Death Eater as her wand soars through the air, thudding to the ground. Harry stares, unseeing, and the silence is stark in the moments that follow. He stares and stares and stares before he suddenly takes in a shuddering breath, as if awakening from the dead. Harry hears a pained moan somewhere behind him, and he knows it won’t be long till Bellatrix is up and raving. He hurriedly crawls to the unfamiliar walnut wand from the ground, forces himself on two feet. He almost collapses with the weight of his exhausted body, and scrabbles in a panic to get away from the awakening witch. He’s running in a full sprint by the time he hears the enraged shrieks of _Potter! POTTER!_ and see the deadly spells shoot past him in a blast of ozone and smoke. She has a backup wand, and he despairs.

He’s running and running and _running_ again that he begins to lose hope, begins to believe that he’ll be struck down in a matter of seconds and it’ll be a maddening start of torture again, but he’s staring into the bleak darkness of the Forest of Dean and...sees something. A glowing, faint light, but it’s enough to urge Harry to hold out a bit longer. He internally takes a moment to thank everyone who has ever tried to harm or kill him because dodging lethal spells has never consumed his life as it did now. A burst of speed and adrenaline suddenly overtakes him, and he’s brushing by trees and shoving his way through the snarly thickets in a fast forward of condensed time. It’s enough to get him to a small clearing, guarded by a circular ring of towering trees, and right in the middle is a mass of thrumming energy, the color of cool blues and royal purples. It’s as long and wide as a regular door, and Harry can’t help but compare it to those fantasy doorways he’d imagine while reading long forgotten muggle fiction novels. He’s gasping and gulping and almost retching onto the forest floor, nauseous with exhaustion and blood loss and overexertion, but he almost forgets about the world while filled with awe and wonder. Almost.

He’s stumbling to the “doorway” seconds before he hears her voice. “You dirty little mudblood,” her tone is in a snarl, as if imitating a feral, frothing dog. “You will _pay_! The Dark Lord shall teach you your place!” He’s there, just at the door, caution and wariness out the window because Merlin’s saggy balls, this is his only chance. A strange, unknown portal-like phenomenon, or death and torture. Great choices, but one is the lesser of the two evils, as far as he knows.

“ _CONVERTO_!” Bellatrix screams, and he can feel the heat of the spell whizzing closer to his back. The horror at hearing the Transmogrification curse is muted in his mind, because he’s slipping into a blinding light of energy, magic being choked down his throat the instant he enters the doorway. Bellatrix’s furious cry is a faint whisper to his ears as he _fallsfallswhitefallsmagicenergybreathefallsineedwhiteairfallshelp_ —

_where am i_

Harry freezes. Maybe because the night is cold and his body is frigid to the bone, but it's also because he suddenly realizes that he isn’t actually in the Forest of Dean with Bellatrix, or freefalling in an unknown vortex of pure magic anymore. From the blink of an eye to the next—he’s standing right in front of the doors to Hogwarts, and the night is cold and frosty and _beautiful_ , moonlight spilling across the grounds like in his memories. Harry coughs, though, and a gush of blood rolls down his chin. It’s second nature not to sag to the ground and lay, literally, dead to the world. He shakes off his confusion and drags himself through the door, and through the musty corridors leading to the Great Hall. He’s delirious with pain and struggling on his feet like a newborn foal, but he hazily knows that it’s dinnertime by the lights lazily flickering in the sconces on the walls, and the growing sound of voices with each sluggish step he takes. It seems as if time hasn’t passed between now and the moment he arrived at Hogwarts, because he’s already at the grand doors of the Great Hall and then he’s heaving them open _can’t breathe_ and looking and seeing across the Great Hall and feels _fearterrorregret_ because aren’t Death Eaters supposed to be controlling the castle? and he’s breathing and breathing but not actually breathing because he has no air and then he’s staggering to knees and his hands are shaking and blood is pooling— _a bit sick, isn’t it?_ he thinks a bit hysterically but then he _sees_ and Dumbledore is rising from his seat, blue eyes trained on him, and he wonders frantically _where am i?_ but now he can speak—  
”Death Eaters…” he croaks, and now he notices that the Hall is silent and _they_ are looking at him—a bloody and bruised seventeen year-old with matted hair and furiously shaking hands that whisper _cruciatus cruciatus cruciatus_. They’re gasping and shrieking, and he guesses they know Death Eaters exist and he almost cries in relief but he’s slinking into the floor, wands clattering to the floor, his and Bellatrix’s, and his eyes are heavy but they can still _see_ , yes, they can, and suspects he is truly, utterly, fucked when he sees Snape’s face, not at the professor’s table, no, at the Slytherin’s, and the outraged and righteous faces of his parents at the Gryffindor table. He hopes it’s only all in his delirium, something his mind concocted, and slips into darkness with open arms to the sound of panicked voices and high-pitched screams.

Something...something is happening. Harry doesn’t know what, with lethargy hanging like a limpet on his mind, but it seems as if the darkness is...receding, and when he realizes this, his mind suddenly wakes, alert and wary. Harry groans before he can stop himself, because even though his eyes are still valiantly closed, the smells permeating the rooms he’s in is just as familiar as his bed in Gryffindor tower. The infirmary. It’s in his nature to feel displeasure while in the place, trapped and bursting with restrained energy, but now he’s just terribly glad that he can lay and rest in soft cotton sheets without the neverending stress being on the run entailed. He buries himself into his pillow, turning on his side, and lets out a sigh. He dozes in and out of consciousness with the ease of someone vastly untroubled with life, and isn’t much interrupted until the sound of voices slip into the room. 

“Honestly, Albus!” says an irritated and exasperated voice. “Give the lad some sleep! It’s been three days, yes, but the boy was tortured and suffered extreme magical exhaustion— _and_ malnutrition! It’s no wonder!” Harry, still quite a bit groggy, can’t really understand what the two people are saying. He’s trying to peel off the sticky film of sleep when another voice speaks.

“Yes, yes, Poppy,” Dumbledore says. Wait… _Dumbledore!?_ Harry’s muscles instantly tense and clamp from shock—but mainly to keep him from either hugging the wizened man in joyful relief or strangling him in memories of frustration and anger. It doesn’t take too much effort, though, because he’s too confused and horrified to do much else than bask in his rising panic. “I’m sure you’re right, but the boy will wake up soon. In these dark times, it isn’t wise to leave unknowns to stay unknown.”

A sigh. “...very well, Albus! But if the boy is really just a _boy_ then you shall wait until he wakes up! I won’t have my patients disrupted in their healing. Sit by his bedside, but you shan’t do any more,” Pomfrey says after a few moments, her tone mulish and unsatisfied. The sound of footsteps follows her hesitant relentment, and Harry grimaces from the cover of his blanket. It doesn’t really matter that he holds fond feelings for Dumbledore, it doesn’t take away the fact that the man is powerful and highly manipulative. He doesn’t really want to talk to the man, but nothing naturally goes the way he wishes it to. The ominous swishing of the curtain partitioning foreshadows the words Harry hears next.

“...My boy,” the words come from right beside him, and Harry is resigned to this encounter. “I don’t think it’s considered polite to ignore well-meaning persons, but in my old age, I can never quite understand the youth of our current generation.”

Harry lets out a quiet sigh, and sits up from his pillow, which makes him realize how _wonderful_ he feels. He didn’t really process this when he woke up, but he doesn’t feel more than a slight soreness in his muscles; they’ve probably been dulled by a pain-relief potion. When he faces Dumbledore, never directly meeting his eyes, he can see the minute signs of surprise in the wizened wizard’s face, and this is the horrifying moment when Harry actually _remembers_ the fact he’s in this strange alternate world where Dumbledore is actually alive, and the delusional images he’d seen before he’d lost consciousness however many days ago were in the suspicious shape of a young, less embittered Snape and innocent looking parents. Could it be real? Could the impersonal expression Dumbledore wears while looking at him be out of an absence of familiarity, as if he doesn’t even recognize him? Did he really end up in such a place just because of some curious but unknown bit of condensed magical energy? It wasn’t really some sort of portal, right? It _couldn’t_ be. That’s just...impossible. A portal wouldn’t allow him to travel back in time—it’d be disrupting the laws of magic itself because of the very possible chance that whatever went through would warp the timeline. But then why is _he_ here? Why is he in some messed up reality that’s making him confront a man he’s been grieving for almost a year?

He realizes that he’s been gazing at the white gauze curtain over Dumbledore’s shoulder for a few long, hazy moments, before the man before him had placed a wrinkled, steady hand on his knee. Harry instantly trains his gaze on the hand after wiping away his multiplying thoughts, but with a sheepish he looks away. He thinks it’s strange that Dumbledore hasn't said anything yet, as he can feel the man’s insistent gaze on his face. Harry doesn’t really want to risk looking into the man’s eyes, in case he’ll use Legilimency on him, but he also reasons that avoiding his eyes may make Dumbledore more suspicious and even prod him to use the Mind Arts if he even accidently met his gaze. With an inquiring look, Harry faces the wizard beside him, meeting his stare. Those bright blue eyes stare back at him solemnly, studying his face with a puzzled twist to his lips.

“...Forgive me,” Dumbledore says after a few quiet moments. “You greatly remind me of someone I know. Uncannily. Lad, what is your name?”

Harry heart thunders in his chest, and he can feel his hands grow clammy with the pressure on his shoulders slowly gaining weight. Great. It’s there, up in the air, that this Dumbledore doesn’t even recognize him— _except_ for the fact he obviously looks like his father, uncannily, like Dumbledore said. Harry despairs the fact he couldn’t have had a few days healing somewhere else, where he could have disguised his appearance so he wouldn’t look like a bloody _Potter_. It’s only luck that his green eyes and disgustingly long hair disguise the more noticeable Potter genes. Potters are generally known for hazel, brown eyes and untameable hair. Whenever he sees his hair slip in front of his eyes, freed from being tucked behind his ear, he can see that being weighed down by its length has almost made it seem manageable! Well, it would if he could get the knots and gunk out.

“My name is Henry Jules Brazier,” Harry says quietly, tone grim and withdrawn. Dumbledore gives a slow nod as he runs a hand down the length of his beard.

“Any relation to the Potter family, my boy?” the man asks in a pensive, questioning tone.

Harry looks at him confusedly. “The Potter family? I’m sure there’s a distant connection. My father has told me that the Brazier family originates from the sister of the Potter that gained the Potter family’s high-society name. Her husband apprenticed under that same Potter’s mentor, who was also very well practiced in brass finery. The founders of my family made their fortune in brass works and decorative pieces before branching out into lucrative finery and decorations…” Harry pauses, as if in thought, before continuing. “I’m pretty sure my family owns a portion of Twilfitt and Tattings. We fund a good portion of the jewelry and silks that run through the shop, and a lot of commissions come to us as well, but I can see why you’d think I have some Potter blood. About...oh, I don’t know, 200 years ago the Brazier family was quite close to the Potter’s, but moved away when the Potter’s began finding power and profit in other niches of society. The Brazier family was becoming the Potter family’s shadow, and they subsequently moved to France and enjoyed many profits there,” he gives Dumbledore a strained smile. “But my Grandfather moved back to England when Grindlewald’s rise become too tense for him to handle, so I’ve been raised here all my life,” a pause. “The Brazier family had many Potter cousins marry into the family, but completely avoided the Pureblood inbredity, as they were open to halfbloods and muggleborns marrying into the family as well. They liked new blood and minds, but the Potter genes still ran rampant even in our diluted family. My mum’s eyes were the only traits that got through,” Harry says with not a little bit of sadness, and with that last sentence, Harry can see the light in Dumbledore’s dim a little.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Brazier, but you have to tell me of the terrors you have witnessed the night you showed up on Hogwarts’s doorstep,” Dumbledore says and looks genuinely apologetic.

Harry sighs. “...My parents were murdered when I was very, very young, by a dark wizard full of resentment for the end of Grindelwald’s reign, so I was raised by my aunt and uncle, and lived in relative peace until the rise of Voldemort’s power put a stopper on things,” Harry tenses under Dumbledore’s boring stare, and almost curses the use of Voldemort’s name. Harry hopes his undaunting use of the name doesn’t bring too much attention to him. “He’s been targeting well-known shops and families across the whole of England ruthlessly. He corners the biggest market holders and forces them to join the ranks of his Death Eaters or die a cruel death.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore nods grimly. “That seems to be a recent pattern. Mrs. Malkins and Mr. Ollivander have been wary about leaving their shops on Diagon Alley after the disappearance of Mr. Fortescue and Mr. Goldleaf from Eeylops Owl Emporium.”

“Yeah,” Harry says in a resigned tone. “Anyway, my family was targeted a while ago. This wasn’t recent. I’m sure my family was one of the first to be sought out. The Brazier family has always been very influential in France, and so I think Voldemort wants to use our power and money to support his war effort. We didn’t...comply,” Harry says darkly. “A masked Death Eater showed up at our front door. Gave us their terms. My aunt and uncle weren’t very pleased with their visit, but we deflected him so that we could buy time. We wrapped up any loose ends on our parts and booked it out of there. We’ve been on the run since August, but I was careless and was spotted outside the wards of our camp,” his face shutters close when he remembers what he left behind at that camp. So much progress lost. What is his world going to do when the person who’s prophesied to end Voldemort isn’t even in the same world anymore? “I was followed ruthlessly by a Death Eater hellbent on torturing me and presenting me to Voldemort...I don’t quite remember what came next. Only that I wished desperately to be safe, ” Harry whispers mirthlessly and tries to ignore the pressing memories of the _crucio_ Bellatrix had casted on him, but his body tenses and slightly shakes when the phantom sensations of that night rise steadily the more he focuses on that agonizing moment.

“My boy,” an anguished voice says and Harry is broken out of his nightmarish reverie. “I am sorry you had to live through that. Can you remember the identities of the Death Eaters you faced?” he asks and Harry mutely shakes his head. Dumbledore sighs and probes him with an appraising stare. Harry silently meets his gaze before the aged man stands on creaking bones. “I must say,” Dumbledore starts with a tired voice, and for some reason, as Harry looks at the man, he seems to have aged decades. As if he has already lived more than twenty years with a wizarding war under his belt and the pressure of a second one. Harry hopes to never be like this man, who cares but never becomes more than the powerful War General he became towards the end of his life. “You are a very courageous boy, to have lived and battled the onslaughts of a trained Death Eater.”

Harry inwardly bristles, as the compliment sounds almost condescending to his ears when he has lived the life of a War General for almost three years. He’s trained his fellow classmates in preparation for battle, lead them and spoke for them for the war they knew was to come. For the war that came. He’s faced Voldemort five times and _lived_ , and hearing, “ _You are a very courageous boy_ ,” doesn’t fail to grate on his nerves. His emotions must show on his face, because Dumbledore has regained the twinkle in his eyes and he looks at him with faint humour showing on his face.

“Ah,” Dumbledore says. “The pride of today’s youth,” it isn’t long before the wizard leaves the infirmary, and Harry’s heart is pounding so hard that he’s afraid he'll pass out from the overload. He did it. He successfully threw off Dumbledore’s conscious Legilimency. He deceived _Albus Dumbledore_. And everything he said was true. If you looked with the right perception.

After Dumbledore left, Madam Pomfrey instantly bustled in with a worried fervor. She casted repeated diagnostic spells on him, being extra thorough in her work. Potion after potion she gave him, pastes to heal his torn muscles and healing potions that soothed his torn throat, his nerves that had seemed to simmer under his skin cooling under her Nerve-soothing potion. It seemed she’s had to repeat this for the four days he’s been staying here, as the damage was severe enough to withstand a one-time treatment. The gashes that had cut so painfully into his muscle had already healed to Madam Pomfrey’s satisfaction the the day after he arrived, and it seems the worst of his injuries have already healed, with only many silvery scars to have left their trace.

Harry is sitting quietly on his cot when Madam Pomfrey walks in, a clipboard in hand. “Now, young man, what is your name?” she asks in a tone that brooked no nonsense.

“Henry Jules Brazier,” Harry answers obediently. The mediwitch scribbles something on her parchment with a quill.

“Sex?”

“Male.”

“Date of birth?”

“I was born June 16th, 1961.”

She hums sadly. “So you’re 16 years old, lad? So young to be caught in the crosshairs of war,” she then looks at him with a dubious stare. “Are you sure you aren’t 15 years? You look a little small for someone your age,” _I’m 17 years old, bloody hell_ , Harry thinks mutinously.

Harry scowls. “Guess I’ve not gotten the genes for such a grand notion of height. 165 centimeters isn’t very small.”

Pomfrey smirks. “For a female, yes, 165 centimeters isn’t very small,” she smiles at Harry’s displeased glare. “What are the names of your parents?”

Harry sobers slightly. “Rose Brazier was my mum and Jules Brazier was my dad. I lived with my aunt Daisy and her husband Rupert Cox,” if anyone were to accuse Harry of giving his uncle the most boring but unfortunate name he could give, he wouldn’t deny it.

She gives him a sympathetic glance at his answer. “Okay, Henry, where did you live?”

“A town called Westermont in Cambridge. Hallow’s End,” Harry hopes that no one will actually check to see if Henry Jules Brazier really exists. He dearly needs to get to Gringotts, and only then will his place in this strange world look seamless. Goblins love a fair bit of coin. Harry’s persona-material will run out soon if these questions don’t stop. He’s only lucky that he remembers these random bits about the Brazier Lordship he’s fit to claim and that Cambridge actually _has_ a town called Westermont with a street named Hallow’s End in it. Sheer dumb luck is usually what gets him by, and it seems that trend hasn’t stopped so far in this reality without his friends.

“It seems, Mr. Brazier, that we are finished here,” she pauses to jab a last little note on her parchment with a touch of finality and then fixes him with a stern gaze. “You, young man, are going to wait out the rest of your recovery time before Headmaster Dumbledore decides what to do with you. _Don’t_ get up to anything while in my infirmary,” she snaps when Harry began to open his mouth. “You are here to be healed and rested, which shall only take a few days at the most. It will do you good to learn some patience if you cannot wait even a day in here,” and with a last warning glare, she sweeps out of the room.

Harry slowly exhales, and it feels like he can actually _breathe_. It’s no joke the amount of fear and stress he felt when Dumbledore was in the room, or when Pomfrey asked him questions he only had a few seconds to think about. And acting! Bloody hell, it may not be hard to actually feel some of the emotions “Henry Blazier” may be feeling right now, as he was just projecting his version of the story into the fake one, but he’s committing himself to secrets he hasn’t prepared himself to keep. He’s in the fucking past, around people who he should really _not_ tell about the future! Precautions, precautions! There isn’t even a way to tell he’s actually in an alternate reality or _back in the bloody past_ where it’s another matter of when the chicken or the egg came first. And there’s still _Voldemort_ to deal with as well, along with his Horcruxes that are probably in totally different places right now, if the Diadem and Ring aren’t counted. Maybe the Locket as well. Blimey. 

His chest is heaving around stale air, throat closing, hands shaking when the sound of voices cracks through the walls of his anxiety. Instantly, Harry is staring towards the entrance of the infirmary, wary and apprehensive, but the panic in his veins is dashed when he’s too busy choking on his own shock.

James Potter himself is walking into the infirmary, chest puffed out as he saunters inside, confidence _oozing_ from him. The laugh lines around his mouth seem to have a smirk imprinted onto his very face. Harry can’t help the way he gaped at him; never did he think he’d be in close encounter with either of his parents this soon! But soon Harry freezes up, and Harry can’t help wanting to flee this place. Seriously! Now his mum is in here, and Harry thinks that no wizarding picture could ever capture her. Her hair, previously described as a “fiery red,” never really said how the magic in her blood most likely mutated her hair colour to be as deep as blood. No one’s ever mentioned that Harry looks like Lily in any other way besides her eyes, but Harry can see her features in his own face as much as he can with his dad’s. Harry watches as his mum takes her place beside his dad as natural as it was to breathe air, powerful in the way she carried herself, intelligent in the knowing glint in her eye, and assure of herself in the way her confidence doesn't tip its way into superiority. Harry is in awe. He’s always wanted to know more about his mum, but it’s always been about his father “this,” his father “that.” Never anything about his mum other than she liked Potions and was a prodigy at Charms. She had red hair, green eyes, was a muggleborn, was a sister to his dastardly Aunt, and was married to his dad—she also sacrificed his life for him, but that never tells him anything personal about her, does it?

Harry, with his heart jumping in his throat, does a few more mental freakouts when two young men walks in to join his parents. A very, very young looking Sirius Black who seems to be even more of a playboy and flirt at this age by the swagger of his stride, and a lively looking Remus who doesn’t have the lines of exhaustion that would cut into his face in his own reality. Overwhelmed, Harry hopes they leave _soon_ , because he feels the stuttering of his chest and the burning in his eyes well up quickly, faced so bluntly with the deaths of people he cares so much for. Harry silently takes in a shuddering breath, pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes as he tries to stop the pooling tears, acutely aware of the whispering voices outside of his sectioned off cot. 

“He’s over here!”  
The familiar sound of the swishing of his curtain never sounded more daunting to Harry than it did now. He’s sitting piteously on his bed, hunched over his knees that are pushed up to his chest; his eyes red with the burning of his tears and hands limp with an encroaching sense of panic and helplessness. He startles badly when the curtain opens and four pairs of eyes are owlishly looking at him. He heaves in a breath in an effort to pull himself together, and faces the inquiring group. His dad looks at him with narrowed eyes.

“Sorry about that,” Harry says with a strained smile. “Just, ah...bad memories. Who are you guys?”

His mum had softened the moment he spoke, her emerald eyes looking at him in concern. “We’re friends of James here,” she gestures to his dad, and he hums in acknowledgement. “We, err, came here because of you—or because we wanted to come with James, and he’s been told to visit you,” Harry nods as he can feel himself calming down, however temporarily, and looks to his father, whose gaze still bores into him.

“So you’re the kid Dumbledore says I’m related to?” his dad—James—says.

Harry inwardly cringes. “Err, well, not really. Only distantly—!”

“So we’re related,” James says in a flat tone.

“ _Distantly_ , I said. Our families used to be brother families, but really, we’re only distantly related!”

“So...we’re related,” his father says in a tone that implied Harry was lacking intelligence.

Harry concedes. “Yeah. But we’re probably 6th removed cousins or something. Or more than that. So I guess...we’re related if you really want to simplify things, but then we could argue that you’re much more related to the Malfoy family than to me, and therefore should consider them family more than me,” Harry finishes with a dry tone, and Sirius barks out a laugh somewhere behind James. His dad looks at him with a disgusted sneer, but silence falls afterwards and the awkwardness is thick. Harry has no idea why they’re here, but suffering in silence with three people he loves, people who barely know who he is, is hardly at the top of his list. And now his _dream_ has come true! Oh Merlin, the awkwardness is killing him. Can’t somebody say something? _He_ can’t do it! He would probably fuck it up with some abrupt tears and “sorry’s” to people who would literally not understand his reasons for the words in the first place.

“Since he’s basically a Potter, does that mean we get to cheer for him when he gets Sorted into Gryffindor?”

Harry cracks a smile at that, and looks around James to stare at Sirius, who’s smiling a bit smugly at him, but he can’t help the confused question that slips from his mouth. “What do you mean, Sorted?”

“You don’t know?” Remus says from the back, tone coloured in surprise. Harry shakes his head. “Hogwarts has been getting school-aged refugees for the majority of the school year! Headmaster Dumbledore takes them in and enrolls them as actual students so that they can continue their education while having a Sanctuary from Death Eaters and the Dark Lord. You haven’t been one of the first ones, for sure, but you are _definitely_ the worst out of the whole lot Hogwarts has hosting here,” Remus says with a shaking head. Harry stares at him, and thinks a little numbly, _Sheer dumb luck…I’m only lucky that there have been people before me who have sought Sanctuary, or else I would have been put under a lot of pressure from unwanted people_.

“Well,” James says, hazel eyes staring intently at him. “We’ll probably be seeing you in Gryffindor pretty soon. Dumbledore sent me up here to, ‘make you feel welcomed,’ but I think you’re fine on your own and need some privacy,” Harry looks at him, slightly bewildered by the singular attention, and slight nods. Sirius whines behind James, probably wanting to badger him with questions about the “perilous journeys” he had while “ferociously battling” Death Eaters. Or at least, that’s what Harry thinks he wants to do. Sirius always had a flair for drama.

When Harry gives out a quiet yawn, his mum looks at him guiltily before speaking. “We should go, guys. He needs to rest and I still need to finish my essay for Potions! What about you two?” she fixes Sirius and James with a glare, and after few stubborn seconds, they look away with uncomfortable grimaces twisting their faces. “Have you guys even _started_ your essays? I doubt you have! Come on, Peter is still waiting for us in the common room as well!” His mum shoos everyone out of the infirmary with a quick efficiency, and it’s soon that Harry sits there in quiet privacy.

 _It’s silent_ , he thinks, his eyes growing heavy with exhaustion. He falls asleep with a peacefulness he hasn’t felt in a long time.


End file.
